Over time, who we’ve become colors our outlook on many things, including who we think we were when we were young.
Our projected identity, who we imagine we are to others, morphs as we grow older. If all goes well, it progressively becomes a more honest assessment, one that acknowledges our warts, as well as our perceived virtues.When I think back on who I thought I was in my twenties, and what people must have thought of me, I shudder.
Back then, it was all about who I wanted to be, and my unhappiness with who I was, and the horror that someone else might see that. I felt as if everyone else had x-ray eyes, and that I had no choice other than to continue on as if my mask was working. Otherwise, my only other choice was to surrender, to fall on the floor and curl into a fetal ball. Basta, basta. No mas. No mas.
What’s different now? Maybe not as much as I thought. Maybe just the cushion of years. I guess if you keep plugging away, after a while you forget you’re plugging away.
In a perfect world, we unburden ourselves, eventually, of the need to know or care what other people think about us.
In an unforgiving world, it’s essential that we’re continuously forgiving ourselves, and allow the judgment of others to remain in their possession alone.